The Wife and the Widow

by Christian White

  16

  THE WIFE

  Ray was gone by the time Abby got up. There was a vague husband-shaped indent on his side of the bed. She pulled on a pair of day-old leggings, then tiptoed downstairs to make coffee and get the fire started.

  The phone started to ring the moment she set foot in the kitchen, as if it had been waiting for its cue.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Morning, love. I didn’t wake you, did I?’

  It was Henry Biller, no doubt calling from his cramped, windowless office outside the Buy & Bye receiving area.

  ‘No,’ she said, flicking on the percolator. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘I need an extra pair of hands at the shop today, and since you’re looking for more shifts, I thought of you first. The cops are setting up something called an information caravan outside the community centre for people to come forward with information about the murder, which means two things: they’re scraping the bottom of the barrel, and Bay Street’s gonna be a carnival.’

  The percolator gurgled and filled the kitchen with the smell of fresh coffee. There were noises in the hall. The kids were waking up and getting ready for school.

  ‘I know I asked for the extra work, Biller, but I’ve got a lot going on right now. Is there anyone else who could cover?’

  ‘Danny’s staying at his girlfriend’s place on the mainland, Enza is about as useful as tits on a bull, and Marge doesn’t wear her hearing aid in the mornings, so she won’t hear the phone.’

  ‘So, when you said I was your first thought…’

  ‘I meant my only one,’ Biller said. ‘How fast can you get here?’

  ‘Give me an hour.’

  ‘You’re a lifesaver,’ he said. ‘If I ever get around to starting that employee of the month award, you’re my number one pick.’

  ‘Uh huh,’ she said, and hung up.

  She went upstairs and took a shower, then dug her dirty brown B&B tunic out of the laundry basket. It smelled like the deli counter that she’d wiped down on her last shift, so she added an extra layer of deodorant.

  She ran into Eddie on her way back downstairs. He was putting his shoes on by the front door.

  ‘Morning, kid,’ she said, tapping him on the backside as she passed. ‘Have fun at school. Learn stuff.’

  ‘Hi, Mum, bye, Mum.’

  He opened the front door and had one foot halfway out when Abby called to him. ‘Hey, Eddie, hold up a sec.’

  ‘That’s all I’ve got if I want to make the bus.’

  She joined him at the front door and looked over his shoulder. It was a clear day, but the lawn was covered in a thick layer of white frost.

  ‘Have you noticed anything strange about your father lately?’ she asked.

  ‘Strange? How do you mean?’

  It was a good question. She didn’t tell Eddie about the victim calling the house. She didn’t want to creep him out, and she knew that if she did, it would get back to Lori, who was excited enough about the murder already.

  ‘Nothing specific,’ she said. ‘I just wondered if he’d seemed, I don’t know, off to you.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Eddie said. ‘No. I don’t think so. Why?’

  ‘It’s nothing,’ Abby said. ‘Forget it. Go catch your bus.’

  Eddie slung his schoolbag over one shoulder and stuffed his hands into the front pouch of his hoodie. He gave a brief, monk-like bow, then hurried down the front steps and across the lawn, his sneakers crunching on the frost.

  * * *

  Abby drove, her mind feeling a little like chewed meat. She thought about the magazines, the call to the house that lasted four minutes and forty seconds, Ray’s midnight teary in the kids’ bathroom so Abby wouldn’t hear. They were pieces of a larger picture, like dinosaur bones covered with dirt. She was on her knees, shifting sand from the bones with a toothbrush, exposing parts of a beast with no real idea what that beast was, or what it looked like.

  Did she want to know?

  Her thoughts dead-ended as she came over the crest of Neef Street and spotted Ray’s work truck parked outside an enormous Georgian Revival.

  Abby had to get to work, so she considered driving on, but something Bobbi had said in the Belly the night before suddenly seemed strangely significant: you don’t shit where you sleep.

  The things she needed to talk to Ray about were stacking up, and she’d much rather discuss them at home but this seemed like the island’s way of telling her, it’s time.

  She eased the Volvo between two colossal stone pillars, then followed a long, straight driveway up to the house. It stood on a vast estate, looming like a haunted castle. There was a crack in the exterior wall just above the third-storey window. The crack cut a jagged line that stopped just below the roof, like the House of Usher.

  She parked alongside Ray’s truck, at the top of a large, horseshoe-shaped entranceway. The toolbox lay open on the rear tray. The front door was also wide open. Ray must have been airing the place out. She hurried to the top step and paused at the threshold.

  ‘Ray?’ she called. There was no answer other than her own voice echoing around the giant entranceway. She went inside, marching through the house, calling her husband’s name.

  ‘Ray? RAY?’

  There were grand rooms in all directions, filled with open fireplaces and sophisticated furnishings wrapped in protective plastic, and each window on the west wall gave unobstructed views of the water.

  ‘Hello, Ray?’

  A prickle of fear crept up her spine when Ray didn’t answer. What if—

  Crack!

  The sound startled her. It had come from outside. She moved through the house, out the back door and into a sprawling native garden: a sea of colour below a colourless sky. Stringybark trees and towering myrtle beeches foamed along the rear fence line. The estate backed onto the Belport Nature Reserve, a deep, dark and wild stretch of bushland.

  Aside from a small population of brown snakes, all the animals that could kill you in Belport lived in the water. One was free to hike Belport’s trails or wander silent roads without fear of being mauled, dragged off and consumed, but Abby couldn’t help picturing giant shadow beasts lurking in those woods.

  If the past two days had taught her anything, it was that there was plenty to be afraid of on this island.

  Chop!

  She followed the sound down a winding stone path, then onto a freshly mown lawn. She found Ray, axe in hand, clearing a gum tree that had fallen on a toppled birdbath by Ray’s feet. He was knee-deep in a mess of shattered wood and narrow, twisted limbs.

  Judging from the size of the woodpile he’d made, he’d been at it for quite a while. There were chunks of kindling scattered across the lawn. It was a bone-chilling afternoon, but sweat was pouring down his forehead. She approached quietly, not wanting to startle him into chopping off a toe. He looked strong and handsome, shifting the weight of the axe from his left hand to his right, lifting it high and swinging with precision. It cleaved through a branch with a sharp, dry crack. She noticed an almost tangible release of tension in the air.

  ‘Hi, babe,’ she said.

  He looked up and grimaced. ‘Abby?’

  ‘I came through the house. The front door was open. I hope that’s okay.’

  ‘Are you following me?’

  The accusation took her by surprise.

  ‘Following you? No. I was driving past on my way to work and … Why would I be following you?’

  He set the axe against the fallen tree and lifted the collar of his T-shirt over his face to clear the sweat. It left a small, spider-shaped smudge of dirt above his right eye. ‘Sorry, I was in my own head. You startled me, that’s all. It’s usually just me and the birds out here.’

  The wind snuck beneath the folds of her tunic and nipped at her. She pointed to the fallen tree and asked, ‘What happened here?’

  ‘I’ve been waiting for this one to go for a couple of seasons now. She was a tough old girl. Wish to hell she’d fallen two inc
hes to the left and missed the birdbath.’

  ‘Did you talk to the police?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘You said you’d see them first thing, before work.’

  ‘I know what I said. I just haven’t got around to it yet. I’ll head into town when I’m done cleaning up this mess.’

  ‘Well, shit, Ray, it’s not like you forgot to pick up a litre of milk,’ Abby said, frustration – or was it fear? – creeping into her tone. ‘The police will want to speak to you, and I’d rather they didn’t do it in front of the kids. I get why you might be scared, Ray, but I’m sure all they’ll want to do is check and vet your alibi.’

  ‘Check and vet?’ he baulked. ‘This isn’t a true-crime book, Ab, and I’m not scared. I’m busy. I said I’d do it and I will.’

  ‘Why are you being so defensive about this?’ Abby asked.

  In lieu of a response, he lifted the axe and swung it. It cracked through a damp dead branch with a jarring shaak! ‘What are you doing out here, Abby?’

  ‘I told you. I was driving past and—’

  ‘Why are you really here?’

  ‘I didn’t want to shit where we sleep,’ she said.

  He worked the axe handle between the palms of his hands and glared at her, waiting for her to continue. So, she did.

  ‘You know how I got this?’ she held up the bandaged thumb on her left hand. ‘I was in the garage, skinning that possum Susi saved for me, and I nicked myself. I thought I’d find a bandaid in the first-aid kit behind your bench. Instead, I found your magazines.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Ab.’

  ‘Boyz. Truck Stop. Man O Man. Stud-Fucker…’

  ‘Jesus.’ His lips closed tightly. His muscles tensed. He fingered the axe handle, looking into the forest of paperbark trees that lined the edge of the estate.

  ‘Did you know him, Ray?’ she asked. ‘The guy who was killed, the guy who called the house, did you know him?’

  ‘Of course not. He called the house. He asked me how much it would cost to hire me as his caretaker. That’s it. Honestly, Abby, I don’t know what the hell has got into you?’

  ‘Into me? Ray, what am I expected to think? Why are you looking at magazines like that?’

  ‘It’s not…’ He trailed off and rested the axe over one shoulder. The blade was sticky with tree sap that reminded Abby of blood. ‘It’s not what you’re thinking.’

  ‘Lori heard you crying the other night,’ Abby said.

  ‘Did she?’ he said. His tone was suddenly cold. ‘In that case, I wish Lori would crawl out of my arsehole and I wish you would too.’

  Abby took an instinctive step backwards, nearly stumbling on a chunk of concrete from the birdbath. Ray, who had been staring down at the fallen tree, looked up. His face had contorted into a twisted version of itself. His skin looked waxy in the morning light, like a Madame Tussauds model. His eyes had been replaced with those of a stranger. She didn’t know those eyes, and for a moment, she didn’t know the man.

  ‘Back off, babe,’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Forget about those magazines, forget about that phone call, and back off. I said I’d take care of it, and I will.’

  ‘I don’t know if I can do that, Ray.’

  For one jarring, terrifying moment, Abby pictured her husband lurching forward, raising the axe high over his shoulders and … Suddenly their jokes about Jack Torrance and the roque mallet didn’t seem the least bit funny.

  ‘Not even for the kids?’ he asked.

  ‘What are you telling me, Ray?’

  ‘To tread lightly, Abby, and to back the fuck off.’

  He hoisted the axe into the air and buried the blade in the trunk of the tree. Then he marched up the stone path towards the house. Abby gazed west, to the deep blue waters of Bass Strait, and wondered how it might feel to wade into them.

  17

  THE WIDOW

  For a few blissful moments, Kate woke with her mind empty – then the phone rang. It was just after dawn, and she’d finally started drifting off.

  ‘Yes?’ she said groggily.

  A small voice on the other end of the line whispered, ‘Did I wake you?’

  ‘Mia?’

  ‘I know it’s really early,’ she said. ‘But you said I didn’t need a reason to call.’ She sounded unsteady. Kate could tell she’d been crying.

  ‘You don’t, monkey,’ Kate said, trying to keep her own voice under control. It took an effort not to burst into tears, but at the same time, she was surprised to find herself smiling in the early light. It was good to hear her daughter’s voice. ‘Are you okay?’

  There was a beat of silence, then Mia said, ‘I don’t know. I think so. Are you coming home soon?’

  ‘Really soon,’ she said.

  ‘Grandma said they were talking about Dad on TV, but she wouldn’t let me watch it and didn’t tell me what they said.’

  Kate sat up and wrapped an arm around her knees. She squeezed her eyes shut to stop herself weeping. ‘How is your Grandma?’

  ‘Weird. She’s okay, but sort of crazy. I was watching YouTube this morning and she asked me what I was watching, so I showed her a video of a monkey riding a pig and she laughed so hard, like, hard enough that her whole body was shaking, like when I pretend to be electrocuted, but then, all of a sudden, she started crying.’

  ‘People do weird things when they’re sad,’ Kate said. ‘I’m sorry, monkey. I should be there, and I should have been there to tell you about your dad. These past few days, I … I’m not sure I’ve been the best mother.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ Mia said eventually. ‘People do weird things when they’re sad, right?’

  In the brief silence that followed, she imagined Mia perched on the floor beside the bed in the guestroom, smelling fresh and floral, like Pam’s expensive old-lady soaps. Mia was only two hours away, but she seemed much further than that.

  ‘What did he look like?’ Mia asked.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Dad.’

  The question cut through her. She took a breath, then lied. ‘He looked like he was sleeping.’

  ‘Sometimes at funerals they leave the coffin open so you can see. Will Dad’s be like that?’

  ‘I don’t know, monkey.’

  ‘He’ll have to be embalmed,’ Mia said, sounding out each syllable. ‘That’s when they take out all your blood and put chemicals in and make it so your meat doesn’t rot and you don’t smell.’

  ‘Did Grandma tell you about that?’ Kate asked.

  ‘I looked it up on wikiHow,’ she said. Kate could picture her eyes, alive with morbid curiosity. ‘After all that they clip your fingernails and put gel in your hair and put make-up on. It doesn’t even matter if you’re a boy or not. They still put the make-up on. Sometimes the eyes won’t stay shut so they have to use superglue. Oh, and sometimes, if the body is, you know, leaky, they have to use plastic undies. Sorry, is this TMI?’

  Kate thought about leaving monsters under beds and said, ‘No, monkey. It’s not TMI. What happens next?’

  * * *

  After hanging up with Mia, Kate couldn’t get back to sleep. A series of practical questions kept her mind buzzing. When should she begin planning the funeral? Who did she need to inform about John’s death? What was she going to do with the holiday house?

  Feeling overwhelmed and light-headed, she got out of bed and took a shower. She sat down on the tiles and closed her eyes. She imagined her pain was sand and tried to visualise the hot water washing it all away. It didn’t work. She got out, dried herself and dressed. She brewed a cup of instant coffee – there was no milk in the minibar, so she had to take it black – and sat down on the spongy motel mattress.

  She flicked through the channels on the TV for a while, then lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling. As morning light filled the room, she thought of the manhole cover at the holiday house. She pictured the pencil-width opening and wondered what – if anythin
g – lay beyond it.

  Two coffees later she couldn’t stand being in the room a minute longer, grabbed her car keys and decided to take a drive. On her way to the Lexus, she paused outside Fisher’s room and looked through the window, half expecting to see a light on. The room beyond was dark. The night before, he’d had a bottle of Chivas even before she got to him, so she guessed he’d be sleeping it off for a few more hours. She knocked on the door gently, just in case.

  Fisher emerged, faster than expected. Had he been sitting in the dark?

  ‘Did I wake you?’ she asked.

  He shook his head and ran a hand through his hair. ‘I don’t think I slept.’

  ‘I’m heading out. Need me to pick anything up for you?’

  He held up an index finger as if to say, one moment please. He ducked back into the room and reappeared a second later. ‘I’m all out of cigarettes. Would you mind?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  She climbed into the car and drove to Bay Street, easing to a crawl outside the Buy & Bye, where John had stopped for groceries, wearing a parka and an unreadable expression. The supermarket wasn’t open yet, so she headed to Neef Street.

  She pulled onto the shoulder opposite the holiday house and scanned the property for police cars. She half expected to find the property teeming with police, crime scene photographers and forensic investigators, but it was quiet and still. Someone had been there though. There were multiple muddy tyre marks leading in and out of the driveway, and strapped across the front gate was yellow tape that said, over and over, DO NOT ENTER.

  Kate hoisted herself up and over the front gate – had she opened it, the police tape might have snapped – and started up the driveway on foot.

  She supposed that technically what she was doing was trespassing on a crime scene, but this was her house, and she couldn’t shake the image of that manhole cover, slightly ajar. It beckoned her.

  She weaved through the police tape and into the house. All the lights had been left on. There were heavy indentations in the carpet – boot prints from the police, she guessed. The banisters at the bottom of the staircase were flecked with white powder, as were all the doorhandles.